


Through Time to the Supernova

by BlushingNewb



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Fountain (2006)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, Deathfic, Drama, Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Translation from Russian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-26
Updated: 2014-05-26
Packaged: 2018-01-26 15:07:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1692746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushingNewb/pseuds/BlushingNewb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if you could live forever?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through Time to the Supernova

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Annette_N](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annette_N/gifts).
  * Inspired by [До сверхновой сквозь время](https://archiveofourown.org/works/856316) by [Annette_N](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annette_N/pseuds/Annette_N). 



> A translation from Annette_N's До сверхновой сквозь время. Many thanks to gowerstreet for beta-ing this work, even as it was still in progress.
> 
> *Apologies - early formatting issues have been corrected and now the work appears in its entirety.

“My people hate me,” the king said smoothly, without emotion, as he looked pensively out the window. This particular window of the castle overlooked the central courtyard, which currently hosted a gallows; now successful in its primary purpose. The body of a hanged man swung gently in the wind. Moonlight illuminated the outlines of the king’s body, and in the whiteness of his nightshirt, he closely resembled a ghost.

“Criminals should be punished. An attempt on the king’s life can only have one possible outcome – death,” answered his attending knight.

“There are those who do not agree. And I know that behind the scenes there are many who share their view-” here the king paused, nodding toward the figure in the courtyard “- and sympathize with their plight.”

“These _people_ want to leave this country without a ruler!”

“What, so this is a rarity?” The king turned to him and a weak smile played on his lips, clearly improper for one contemplating his own death. “The archbishop remains remarkably persistent. And yet – there seems to be an endless supply of those willing to follow him.”

“There will always be fanatics. Your Majesty, this is the fourth attempt in a year and two months, and we still do not have clear evidence of the Archbishop’s involvement ...”

“However, you’ve prevented the murder of your king this time. Perhaps I should make you the head of my security?”

“Thank you, but I am content."

“Well, you know best. Although perhaps this is closer to the truth – you would prefer not to trail the heels of John Lackland, scion of a glorious and ancient family?”

“Your Majesty, it's a slanderous nickname - a relic of the past and human idiocy. You are the rightful ruler of England, and this great state submits to your authority.”

“Ah, yes, this realm and its none-too-loyal subjects! I'm still the ‘heir without inheritance,’ deprived of the throne by my own brother-” The king slowly paced around the room as he spoke, each of his steps sinking into the deeply piled carpet. “Of course, I got what rightfully belonged to me in the end, but that only confirmed what people believed of me. The country is in agony; France steals our land, barons tear the country apart from within.”

The knight closely monitored the movement of the short figure in its flowing white shirt. He remembered vividly the reign of Richard – his subjects had found him majestic and awe-inspiring, but his soul was pure evil. In his tenure terror and suffering spread over his throne and throughout the country. All his good intentions served to hide his true nature as a cruel and vicious man – his Crusade was clear proof of that. John, his brother, has tried to rid the country of the shadow left by Richard’s tyranny but received nothing but condemnation for his efforts. Even now, he still had yet to reap the full fruits of the fields first planted by his older brother.

“It's not your fault, sire. You have done and continue to do the best you can.”

The king stopped in front of him and looked him straight in the eyes.

“You have never doubted me.”

“I am ever a supporter of the truth.”

“But I am only human. People tend to make mistakes.”

“I will be faithful to you unto death.”

So saying, the knight bent his knees and lowered his head in reverence. Regal fingers trailed through his dark hair, halting briefly over his temple before withdrawing entirely.

“There are days Archbishop Langdon still gets to me,” sighed the king. Before the king could continue, the warrior rose with dignity, and spoke in firm, defiant tones.

“I will not let this happen.”

“You have an amazing belief in your own abilities,” the king said, smiling.

“I just know myself well. Your Majesty...let me kill the archbishop. No one will be the wiser.

The barons are too weak and cowardly to unite against you without his guidance.”

“No,” – the king frowned and shook his head. “No, I have said no, we will not do this. It’s completely unnecessary and pointless. I'd rather sign the Charter* than do such a thing.”

“I hope it's not because he’s a man of God? You and all your people know how black a soul Stephen Langton has.”

“And I do not want you to endanger your own pure soul for the sake of his murder.”

At this the knight gazed down at the king, and reflected once more on the incongruity of this rather short man’s bland appearance (so different from Richard’s striking beauty) with his indomitable strength and will.  In response to his command he nodded.

“Go now, chevalier. 'Zounds, what a sultry night!” the king pulled at the collar of his shirt and stalked to the window once more, ignoring the knight.

“Good night, Majesty,” called the knight, but as he neared the door his king summoned him again.

“Wait a moment. Tell me...what do you know of the Druids?”

“Druids, sire?” the knight asked in surprise.

“That's right.”

“Fairy tales for children,” he chuckled and, adding nothing more, smirked bemusedly.

“So some say. All right, then, leave me.”

The king, still tugging at his collar, went into the next room without waiting for the chamber to empty. The knight, however, lingered, and on reaching the door, looked back again on some whim. He caught sight of a mirror in the other room reflecting the image of the king, who did not notice him. The king pulled the long nightshirt over his head in a frenzy, sighing loudly with relief as he finally bared his body. In the moonlight, his naked skin seemed to shine a pale blue.

The knight gently closed the doors behind him, praying all the while that it would not squeak.

* * *

“What is this nonsense?” Sherlock scornfully grimaced, nevertheless turning the page to read on further. John rolled his eyes and reached over for the notebook.

“No one’s forcing you to read it, you picked it up all on your own.”

“Well, I have to know what you do in your free time....my god, how can you so distort the historical facts?! So much of this is just conjecture and fantasy... John, this is even worse than your blog. Now you’re writing in the style of those awful pulp novels.”

“Piss off,” John snapped at him, pulling the notebook free from Sherlock’s hands.  “There’s a genre in fiction – ‘alternate history’ – haven’t you heard of it? Well, it’s not surprising you haven’t.”

He grumbled, mimicking Sherlock, “Free time. I have all the free time I need, now…”

John spoke these last words more softly and Sherlock tried valiantly to ignore his bitter and resentful tone.

“And since when you're into all these esoteric goings-on? What’s with this lately developed interest in mysticism?” he shouted after John, who had by now tramped into the bedroom.

He heard only a vaguely muttered, “piss off!” a rather frequent response to Sherlock's queries.

That night, when Sherlock lay with his nose buried in the back of John’s neck, he heard him say in a sleep-fogged voice,

“Maybe I’ve finally found my vocation. I'm glad now I don’t have a blog. It’s too time consuming and you're always whining that the description of the investigation is too ‘romantic.’”

Sherlock mumbled back to him, “I don’t whine. And anyway, you write about me, I’ve a right to voice my opinion. I’ve only been trying to keep you from embellishing the facts. You’ll write the next case up under my strict guidance.”

“There won’t be any more case updates.”

“Don’t be silly. I'll even make sure you’re the one running a mile on the rooftops after the criminals.”

“I mean I’m not going to sing any more praises over you and your damned investigations. Now I’ll devote all my considerable talents into writing this book.”

“All right, do what you please. But the rooftops of London are always waiting for us at night.”

John’s back was turned toward him but Sherlock could tell that he was smiling anyway. Sherlock took comfort in that unseen smile, and finally felt his tension over John’s talk of no more blogging dispel. He’d just misunderstood him, that was all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

In the face of all that had happened, John still hadn’t lost faith in himself or Sherlock. And of his own abilities, Sherlock never had any doubts.

For more than half a year now, Lestrade had had all of Scotland Yard to himself and all investigations were conducted using their own resources. Occasionally, the Detective Inspector allowed himself to draw upon Sherlock’s advice if the situation seemed absolutely hopeless. It was now rare indeed for him to be joined by an energetic Sherlock, enthused over some gruesome crime – he was now entirely devoted to his new research and barely took time for anything else. He responded to Lestrade’s phone calls with the now-habitual “I’m busy,” or the even gruffer “go to hell.” If John overheard Sherlock’s responses, he called Lestrade back and apologized for his behavior, promising to speak with him. However, the hoped-for return call never occurred.

Of course, Lestrade knew the reason for Sherlock’s sudden break into medical research. Everyone knew.

The first time John tried to dissuade Sherlock from his newest obsession, referencing a favourite phrase of Sherlock’s about his profession, “my life’s work,” Sherlock had cut him off, infuriated and enraged,

“There is nothing more important to me than your life. And don’t you try to tell me that’s not the case – it’s the only case that matters.”

Brain tumor. One could hardly imagine a more frightening diagnosis. Ironic for a doctor, one might say. It showed up suddenly and progressed rapidly, but the appropriate drug was still in its developmental stages.

For Sherlock, there was no choice but to exploit his talents as a chemist. Mycroft’s power provided him access to the relevant hospitals and laboratories, and Sherlock assembled a stack of literature on cancer but kept it all in Mrs. Hudson’s closet, safely out of John’s reach.

At first, John did not share Sherlock’s confidence in his abilities.

“Sherlock, I know you're a genius, but even you’re unlikely to be successful in an area that requires some knowledge and ... at least one year of specialized training, if you know what I mean? Hopefully this means something to you, coming from a licensed medical doctor?”

“Well, I didn’t have all the years in medical school you did.”

John looked at him incredulously.

“You're kidding. You studied medicine at uni?”

“I gave up - it wasn’t very interesting. In order to get to areas of specialization we had to spend far too much time on simple ‘common knowledge.’ I’ve benefited far more from my independent studies on the workings of the brain.”

“You...you never cease to amaze me.”

“I know.”

John’s behavior regarding the issue reflected the entire spectrum of his feelings. Sometimes he grew angry and irritated, sometimes he reflected on life with a cheerful equanimity, as if flapping around Sherlock with excitement would convince him that everything would be fine after all. Sherlock himself, in turn, consistently repeated that the facts of the situation were unchanging. John didn’t point out that Sherlock’s indulgence in this stark repetition only made his desire that things were otherwise more obvious - it would have been completely useless to do so.

John tried to stay out of the flat as much as possible, and he'd become infuriated on the day he found himself struggling to bring home the groceries. Sherlock wasn’t at home as often as John liked, disappearing instead for days and nights over at the lab. His phone would ring off the hook and then he’d fly out of their flat, except these days it wasn’t clients or the Yard on the other end of the line, it was doctors and researchers. John was no stranger to this behavior, but just now he didn’t want to spend the evenings and nights alone.

“Sherlock, let's go to the coast for a couple of days. Summer is at its height, you know,” he said, taking advantage of the rare Holmesian good mood. Today Sherlock was in no hurry and he had allowed himself to soak in bed next to John. But apparently, his good humor was as fleeting as the morning light, because he gave a disappointing but unsurprising answer,  

“Don’t be ridiculous. The study is in full swing, I need a daily collection and analysis of data. I don’t have time for lollygagging in the country.”

“God, isn’t there someone else who could do that? Two or three days won’t solve anything, and we’d have an excellent weekend.”

“No.”

“Oh, of course!” John exclaimed maliciously, “I’m the great Sherlock Holmes, busy with my newest experiment, don’t bother me! This is so exciting, no time to eat or sleep!” John struggled to get up from the bed in a fit of fury, but Sherlock grabbed his hand and he fell back face down onto the pillow. Sherlock loomed over him indignantly.

“John, don’t be an idiot! This isn’t some whim! This has gone on for months already, you know? Months we don’t have anymore…”

The crease on John’s forehead smoothed down and he bit his lip, and Sherlock saw desperation in his eyes. He shouldn’t have said that to him, God knows. But after all, John knows these things, John is a doctor.

John closed his eyes for a moment and when he reopened them, Sherlock saw not a trace of the previous panic. Instead John’s gaze was filled with iron, the look of a proud and strong-willed man, exactly as he had been when Sherlock first met him.

Sherlock lay down beside him and John pulled his head down to his chest. Sherlock listened to the even beats of his heart and tried not to think of how desperately he needed it to continue beating. If John wouldn’t be so stubborn and just paid attention to what he said, this would all be so much easier. When John recovered they could permanently settle on the bloody coast, if that’s what he wanted, doing nothing but stupid, boring things, far away from the Work. He just needed John to be patient with him, with the process.

“Well, admit it, you still get a thrill when you cut open the skulls of those vervet monkeys,” said John sarcastically. Sherlock smirked somewhat, and after pausing, replied,

“A little bit of one.”

* * *

The knight sat quietly, staring at the archbishop as he raised his arms to celebrate the mass. He wasn’t focused on the sacred prayers or responsorial hymns of the service but kept his eyes fixed on the hypocrite below. The king was absent from today’s ceremony, as the archbishop had so helpfully pointed out to his worshippers – a not-so-subtle stab of scrutiny toward King John’s piety and devotion. The archbishop was a cunning and skilled orator, in contrast to the king, and the churchman took every opportunity to discredit the king.

Killing the archbishop seemed the simplest, nay, the only way, to rid the king, his barons and the populace of his sinister influence. The barons were even now forcing the king to new concessions, urged on by the archbishop. The rulers of neighboring countries, also seduced by his hateful rhetoric, grew dissatisfied with the King of England’s policies, and were on the verge of allying together to eliminate a weak rival. The knight knew full well that the archbishop wanted to place Arthur, Richard’s son, on the throne and wipe out any traces of King John’s reign.

It would be so easy – even now, he could get up from the pew, walk directly up to him and put a knife straight into his heart. He had hidden himself under the robes of a lowly priest, and would willingly make such a sacrifice in order to rid England of Stephen Langton. For the sake of his country, he would risk it. For the sake of his king.

His blood rushed and sang with anticipation, and his body tensed, hand twitching to the sheathed dagger at his belt. The time was now.

But a shadow on the wall caught his eye, and, looking longer, he saw Sir Peter standing between two columns. He inhaled deeply and met Sir Peter’s eyes, and the other man nodded slightly. The knight sat down again as Sir Peter joined him. They exchanged a look of mutual disgust at the sight of the archbishop raising the Host high over his head. Sir Peter placed a hand on his arm, and the knight knew at once that his purpose had been discovered. Sir Peter beckoned to the side door of the chapel, and the knight swallowed bitterly several times before following him.

In the corridor, Sir Peter whispered to him,

“You had it written all over your face – such thoughts should not cross your mind.”

“He deserves death.”

“That is not your decision! You know the king’s opinion on this matter,” Sir Peter fixed him with a glare of righteous indignation, “Go now - he’s waiting in the small throne room.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The knight schooled his face into an expressionless mask, intending that not a gesture or word give away his inner turmoil to his king.

“You’re trying too hard.”

The knight tried to suppress the rapid pulse of his heart and instead bowed his head, wordless, hoping that the king was referring to something else…

“Stop pretending in front of your king!” he snarled, thunder sounding in his voice. “I believe I have repeatedly asked you to forget this assassination of the Archbishop, and you swore to me…apparently I cannot trust you!”

The knight looked up sharply, deeply wounded.

“Have I not proved my loyalty? How can you doubt me, my faithfulness to you?” His voice tightened with anguish and despair. Their shouts now echoed throughout the chamber, and it was fortunate that it was only the three of them in the wing. Sir Peter stood frozen by the entrance, paralyzed by their exchange.

Frustrated, the king paced, “I must be sure that my orders are followed without question. I rely upon people who voluntarily give me their loyalty to do my will. In all the kingdom, there are no more than ten who have proven themselves true friends to me. And,” the king’s voice grew softer, “you alone have I allowed closest. Is it not so?”

“Yes, sire.”

“Therefore, please believe your king now and know that he is aware of your devotion.”

“Yes, my sire.”

“Now, then. Sir Peter?”

The king nodded to the door and Sir Peter stepped out. The king continued,

“Believe me, the murder of Archbishop would not solve our problems; it would create new ones. And the Pope, though he supports us, would not be able to ignore the murder of his mighty servant. Are you not aware of the consequences? Personally, I do not wish to lose my head.”

“It pains me to see England’s suffering. I thought it was the only way.”

The king did not respond for a time, until he said cryptically,

“There is another.”

The knight had no time for a reply before Sir Peter returned, bringing with him a lone monk. Because of the hood his face was nearly invisible; only a hooked nose gave proof to a man underneath the robes.

“Your Majesty,” the monk removed his head and bowed respectfully, throwing a piercing glance at the knight.

“Thank you, Father,” the king nodded back in greeting. He addressed the group, “What we are about to discuss today should not go beyond this circle and those who will travel with you.”

“Traveling, sire?” the knight asked, glancing at Sir Peter, who shook his head quizzically to indicate that he knew nothing of the subject, either.

“Father Philip, if you please.”

The monk nodded and began to speak.

“We know that there were people here living in Britannia, the Celts, long before our ancestors forced them from the land. For the most part the Celts were completely destroyed or scattered to the winds, but some of them survived. The legends say that in the southwest there existed the island of Ogygia. On the different parts of this island there grew five sacred trees, each with different healing properties. But at the very center of Ogygia, grown from the seed of all five of the trees, stood what the Celts called the World Tree. The sap of this tree gave eternal life...”

“I humbly beg your forgiveness for my interruption, Father, but I do not understand…what do all these…legends…?” the knight struggled for words, trying not to be rude.

"...as Father Phillip said, this is directly linked to the fate of England. You and Sir Peter will set off to the holy places in search of this tree.”

“Sire?” stammered the knight.

“Why do you stand so amazed?” said the king. “You heard me.”

The knight became suspicious that the king’s reason had been damaged in some way.

“I do not want to doubt this, sir, but…it’s just a fairy tale. These are just myths and legends of the ancient peoples, Father Phillip said as much.”

“Legends, true,” said the monk once more, “But the World Tree actually exists, and Ogygia, just as Britannia and Ireland do. Since this island is otherworldly, though, with mystical properties, it is accessible only at certain times – at a specific alignment of the stars. And the priests of the Celts – the Druids – jealously guard their sacred place from prying eyes.”

“What? No, it's all a fantasy, who could believe in such a thing?”

“I believe,” said the king somewhat forcefully, going over to him, “and you believe your king?”

Again, there was that strange feeling as the gaze was directed at him. A subordinate should not disobey or show doubt, and did so at the risk of fiercest retaliation. But the king was using gentleness and moderation to chastise him. This question in particular – a direct reference to their previous argument – it jarred him. But the knight found the strength not to give into the subtle and indirect blackmail, returning to the monk,

“I do not understand…I mean, it’s one thing for His Majesty, but you, Father! You, as a Christian – how can you conscience these pagan legends?”

“What do you know of the religion of the Druids? Is your knowledge so great?” said Father Phillip, smiling, and in his smile the knight saw some leniency.

“They,” the knight continued, “the pagans, they have a multitude of gods, yes?”

“Somewhat. But this is not the core of their beliefs. At the heart of their faith is the view that the whole world is God – that is what they say.”

In the corner of his eye he noticed the king nodding approvingly at the words. The king’s earlier question hung in the air, unanswered, but it seemed that the king already knew. The knight saw it written on his face, that the king knew he would always believe in him.

“So,” the king spoke loudly. “You will go in search of this tree. The era of England’s prosperity will return and people will no longer know illness or death. We will muzzle the archbishop and put an end to his snares once and for all. Father Phillip will be your guide. We will speak further in the morning; all other orders have already been given.”

The knights and the monk bowed respectfully, and the king dismissed Sir Peter and Father Phillip. The king waited until the room was empty of all but the two of them before speaking to the knight again,

“Remember, the fate of England is in your hands.”

“I will complete the mission you have entrusted to me.”

The king’s hand went to his waist and he pulled a small sheath from his side. With a soft clink, a light blade appeared; simple and undecorated, unusual for a weapon belonging to one of royal birth. The dagger had a bone handle, however, over which was carved a series of elaborate vines, seemingly without end or beginning. The grip shone out a creamy yellow and suddenly, sunlight gleamed over the blade as day broke.

“Take this knife - it will be a symbol of your loyalty. Thrust it into the heart of the tree when you find it, and gather the drink of eternal life from its wounds.”

The knight took the blade, placed it into the sheath and attached it to his own belt. He moved slowly and with great reluctance, his thoughts centered upon himself.

“Why are you so downcast?”

The knight hesitated in his answer. What could he possibly say now? Any words were unlikely to change the circumstances. Still, he replied, his voice filled with emotion,

“How can I leave you? The archbishop and your enemies are waiting for the right moment; I hardly believe that he will fail to take advantage of the opportunity provided by my absence.”

He could not help but let out a quiet gasp at the thought that a new attempt on the king’s life might succeed, but the king chose not to acknowledge his fear.

“I will be careful. Fulfill this quest by any means possible. And know that your king’s heart pulses for you, awaiting your return.

He raised his head at once to look into the deep blue eyes of his king. That tone…and those words. They seemed to the knight a promise, the promise of a long-cherished wish. For so long he had dreamed of this, for what he thought could never be. He should have known he could not hide this from his king; of course he had seen it.

It felt like his heart had dropped into his stomach, so he sank to his knees in turn and bowed his head deeply. He felt the familiar touch on his face, and the king ran his fingers through his curls. He couldn’t stop himself; he turned at once and pressed his cheek to his king's palm, closing his eyes, feeling tears well up behind them, even as he reproached himself for his intemperance.

He told himself fiercely that he could wait for so much more now, but that this was not yet the time. It remained for him to prove his worthiness to his king.

He left the room with grim determination, fingers clenched around the dagger’s handle. For some time afterward, he still felt his cheek burning from the royal touch.

* * *

"Sherlock, where's my knife?"

Sherlock's fingers froze over his keyboard, but a moment later he resumed typing.

"I left it at the lab. I'll bring it back tomorrow," he tried to keep his tone casual in spite of the tension he could hear in John's voice.

"Excuse me, but why did you take it there again?"

"Didn't want to waste my time ripping open the mail. It turns out I had the right idea."

"I notice you didn't take the time to bring it back home."

"It's not lost or anything, John. Wait until tomorrow, nothing will happen to your knife."

Something had already happened to it, though. Sherlock's memory was impeccable, and he remembered removing and setting aside the blade that had previously been skewered into a pile of letters on his desk. But when he was ready to leave a few hours later the knife had disappeared. It wasn't where he had lain it, nor was it in his coat pocket or briefcase.

It was of the utmost importance that he find it.

Previously, Sherlock had used an old, unsightly knife to spear correspondence to the mantlepiece. That knife had since been replaced by John's dagger. His blade was a work of art, sharp and silver-coloured, with an ornate carved handle, far more like a medieval relic than a utilitarian boot knife. John said that it had come to him from his father, who had been an antique collector. After he moved in with Sherlock, John had left it lying about the flat, and had graciously allowed Sherlock to use it to secure his important papers above the fireplace.

"Why are you getting rid of my stuff? You're always in such a hurry - trust me, though, I've still got plenty of life left," John said, grinning over at Sherlock and waggling his eyebrows in mischief.

Sherlock's jaw clenched tightly and he forced out the words,

"Say that again."

John's face fell at once.

"Sorry, I didn't mean anything by it. Just a bad joke...I didn't want..."

But Sherlock simply remained silent and stared sullenly out into space.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The book that John was writing was a constant source of controversy between them.

"So you seriously think your sacred tree could be somewhere in Ireland? These legends place it somewhere on Glastonbury** along with the bodies of King Arthur and Merlin."

"Oh, you don't need to act like such a know-it-all, I know you just read that on the Internet! Look, I was talking with you about this yesterday and you dismissed me like I was on about the solar system again. And don't drag King Arthur into this, he's got nothing to do with it."

"Well, John, I mean, what the hell? Druids?" Sherlock was pleading with him now. "You're a Catholic, though all religions are equally irrational..."

"Piss off. Professor Creo is a very wise man...he's passionate about his theory."

"Your professor is--"

Both an idiot and a fanatic, Sherlock had said. Professor Creo was a recent acquaintance of John's and a lecturer at Oxford; John occasionally traveled to see him there. Sherlock had only ever seen his picture on the website but could easily determine that his work superseded all else and that he had no personal life. Sherlock, of course, could appreciate a person's enthusiasm for his work, but this Creo had addled John's brain with his talk of Druids, the Isle of Ogygia and other such superstitious nonsense. In Sherlock's opinion, Creo's theories were complete bunk and totally unsuitable for the attentions of an ex-army doctor, who had nevertheless fallen for them like an overeager schoolboy. Sacred tree, for fuck's sake...

"Tell me why, John?" Sherlock had pleaded. "You're not a historian, not an anthropologist, you've nothing to do with it at all...why this sudden interest in pagan cults and obscure theology?"

"Why not? I've got a chance to learn about something new, something fascinating..."

"You shouldn't be travelling so far from home."

John had immediately blown up at him - a common enough occurrence now, given his stricter limitations and high level of frustration.

"Would you prefer for me to putrefy on the sofa watching telly all day?"

Sherlock hadn't been satisfied with the non-answer he received but he hated to watch John get upset, so he backed down. He didn't like this musing over eternity and mortality, and he certainly  couldn't conscience thinking about death and John in any context.

It was good that John found something with which to occupy himself, that he hadn't lost his zest for life. With all his typical tenacity, however, he was trying to involve Sherlock in this, too, and Sherlock had absolutely no time or interest in anything other than The Work. He was trying to save his John, dammit.

Nothing had been resolved. They were stuck in place, all these vaunted specialists and oncologists, and Sherlock was in stasis with them. There was no progress forward and time was slipping through his fingers.

Sherlock was exhausted. He would be all too happy to ignore his fatigue, if it could only mean one week's worth of progress without interruption.

* * *

"...we've been wandering in this forest for over a fortnight!"

"It's plain as day that we're lost!"

"...wandering around forever, God knows where this monk's led us..."

The participants of their small squad grew more dissatisfied each day. Only Sir Peter still supported him, but it seemed that even his patience was wearing thin. No one believed that they would find the tree anymore. There was no sign of anything unusual or extraordinary along their path, just endless forest, deep in the isolated reaches of Ireland. The campaign had been long and fruitless.

Father Phillip remained aloof in the midst of the attacks and grievances, maintaining that they were still awaiting the proper sign, confirming that they were indeed on the way to the realm of the Druids, that they would be there when the stars shone from a certain position.

The knight had no choice but to trust him. He clenched the hilt of his dagger more tightly, relying upon its strength.

The days dragged by, and it seemed that they came to the center of a land untouched. Father Phillip said that this was as it should be...

* * *

John tumbled into the flat happy and bright-eyed, not having anticipated Sherlock's arrival before him.

"It's incredible! You know what Professor Creo showed me today?"

"Don't know, don't care."

"Listen to this..."

Sherlock couldn't stand it anymore. For so long he had shielded his desperation from John, but at the sight of his friend's enthusiasm, Sherlock's aching eyes sparked with irritation.

"John, leave me alone! I'm working, trying to find a solution, don't bother me with your pseudohistorical nonsense!"

John was silent and unperturbed, but Sherlock couldn't stop. "I'm doing this for you, but it's like you don't even care that your life is ending, like you don't even care about...us! Don't you know I'm doing this so you can stay with me?"

Once again, John gave no reply but simply ran a hand through his cropped hair - it was shorter than it had ever been, all bare patches and brush-bristle - and wandered off into the bedroom. Sherlock didn't appreciate that his question received no reply.

Further work was impossible now, he couldn't concentrate, and he kicked a chair over in anger. It tipped over onto John's bag, spilling the contents on the floor. As Sherlock stooped to push everything back inside, he came across that hateful draft of John's book.

After a moment's hesitation, he opened it and sat down on the sofa.

* * *

There was something missing. Sherlock could feel it - all his instincts as a scientist pointed to it, and the other researchers agreed with him. The answer was close, all the components were in place, but there was still something elusive...

He thought about it and resolved to go home; perhaps a walk would help disperse some of the cobwebs. On the way back to the flat it began to rain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

John sat in his chair, relaxing as he listened to music pour from the speaker of his laptop. Just the other day he had heard a piece of this particular song from the door of a cafe, and the soft, wistful voice of the singer had stuck with him. Today the melody had persistently swirled in his mind, and recalling it, he had typed the lyrics into the search engine - it had immediately responded with the artist and song title.

He rolled on soft waves of song, enveloped in its leisurely paces. John felt like the hero of some cheesy American movie, who, after emerging triumphantly from an unlikely series of action-packed adventures, rode off into the sunset to the sounds of the Seventies.

_'Cause everybody needs somebody_

_To hold them down..._

_When your feet are leaving the ground_

John suddenly wanted to have this song played at his funeral, whether he died soon or in twenty,  thirty years. It would sound good. He knew he couldn't say anything about it to Sherlock, but then there was so much he could no longer say to him.

_Be the blanket for my bones_

_Be a place that I call home***_

Sherlock would appreciate this song. It was as if it had been written just for them, for the two of them together.

Outside, John heard rain begin to patter down. He poured water from the kettle into a mug to steep his tea, and, looking thoughtfully into the thick vapour, he lowered a single forefinger into his cup without wincing. After some moments he withdrew his finger, now shining and red, and suppressed a sigh.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

A wall of water nearly obscured Sherlock's view but from a distance he saw a figure standing at the entrance of their flat. It was John, standing out in the rain, soaking wet, squinting at the drops as they pummeled his eyelashes.

Sherlock ran to him and when he caught John's eyes he exclaimed,

"You've been standing there for at least twenty minutes! Are you mad? Quickly, into the flat!"

"Don't treat me like a little girl, I won't catch cold from a shower."

"But your body is weakened, for god's sake, what if you caught pneumonia? Get inside, you idiot."

John didn't move but gave him a funny half-smile.

"You've so accurately deduced how long I've been out here...tell me something else about my day, it's been too long since I've seen you in action."

He straightened his shoulders as if it would strengthen his appearance in Sherlock's sight, but Sherlock's only response was to steer him into the flat. He pushed John into a hot shower but when Sherlock made to rub his limbs, John slapped his hands away.

"For Christ's sake, I can do it, I'm not helpless."

Sherlock wordlessly watched him from behind and saw, of course, that those forceful hands were not as precise or as fast as they had once been. Afterward, John sat on the bed transfixed, staring at the wall in front of him. Suddenly it occurred to Sherlock how long it had been since they were...intimate. He dismissed the idea at once as inappropriate and unnecessary, but then John's eyes met his and Sherlock could think of nothing else.

Sherlock curled beside him on the bed and steeled himself for the moment when his friend might ask to postpone sex for a better time, but John was undaunted.

Though Sherlock might once have given free reign to desire and passion, it seemed almost profane to do so now. He still felt torn, however, by both absolute want and tenderness - caught between his need to infuse John with life and the imperative to care for him.

"Don't treat me like glass, damn you, Sherlock. Through all this I've never stopped being a man."

But a long break in their sex life still required preparation and patience. Sherlock unwound his lover slowly, and John breathed in harshly as he did so, forcing his eyes open in spite of the discomfort.

Sherlock first took him with shallow, measured thrusts, trying to extend their love-making indefinitely. He tried to distract John with kisses and caresses but he was having none of it, and, giving into the sensations, Sherlock finally drove into him forcefully. They changed positions in the end, with John taking control and riding astride Sherlock until they both climaxed explosively, eyes locked on one another. Trembling and exhausted, John collapsed onto Sherlock, and they lay in a strange, thoughtful silence, focusing on the sensations still coursing through their bodies.

The sex was physically satisfying to Sherlock, nearly overwhelming in fact, but he felt restless at heart. The picture of his John swam in front of his eyes, strong, indomitable John, and not for the first time Sherlock felt amused as he contemplated his dear doctor's incongruities...

Yes, in spite of it all, John was still himself. He defiantly maintained his independence to the utmost, though he responded to Sherlock's surliness with his usual equanimity and complacency. Under that affable exterior, though, he could be hard as flint, and stubborn.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Several weeks after their encounter in the rain, John tripped over several steps on the stair; he nearly tumbled into Sherlock and they most certainly would have fallen all the way down together. But when Sherlock reached out to steady him, John recoiled.

"Get your hands off me...fuck off, I said!" he growled, pushing past Sherlock.

Sherlock went after him into the sitting room to watch him flop onto the sofa from wobbly legs; his hands were shaking in fury and his fingers were white where he clutched at the arms of the couch.

"I stumbled - just stumbled!" he said to a pacing Sherlock. "There is absolutely nothing to worry about!"

But all of Sherlock's worst fears were confirmed when, on the same evening, John prepared dinner. While he watched John sauté vegetables over the stove, he noticed John holding onto the edge of the frying pan with his bare hand. The pan which was quite successfully steaming the vegetables.

It took no time at all for Sherlock to fly over to him and grab at his wrist.

“Sherlock, that ... damn....”

The burn over his palm was like red leather but John didn't even flinch. Carefully, he averted his eyes from the direct gaze of Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, I was...going to tell you. Or rather...no. Dammit all, I thought I could hide it longer."

"Hide it? You idiot, you've lost sensation! You...you...for how long? Wait, don't tell me," Sherlock's eyes widened as he remembered and understood. "Then..you spent all that time in the rain and you weren't even shaking, didn't feel the cold, not even then....god, you're an idiot! Don't you understand what's this means, John? I have to know these things, you have to tell me about these changes at once...what if I hadn't noticed this..."

"I didn't want you even more scared than you are now."

"Scared...you...hell," Sherlock said weakly as he swirled toward the door again. In John's memory Sherlock had never stumbled over his words, had never left so many gaps in his explanations. John instantly realized how nervous his friend was and he finally gave in to his own panic, leaping up at Sherlock and scrabbling frantically at the rough cloth of his coat to pull him close. Sherlock twitched and hissed reactively but calmed himself enough to embrace John's emaciated body.

“I never thought I would die like this ...”

“You won't die."

"...so helpless, pathetic. Once I thought I'd die in Afghanistan, then - or that I'd get shot, blown up or drowned on one of your mad cases. Any of that, all of it, but I didn't want this - so..."

"Shut up, oh, for God's sake, shut up!" Sherlock unwillingly tightened his fingers over John's shaven head, where deep underneath nested that damnable tumor. "Now let go, I have to get to the lab..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

When he came home, Sherlock saw traces of a stranger in their flat.

“Professor Creo came to see me. It's too bad you weren't here, I'd like for you to meet him."

An assortment of manuscripts, drawings and tattered pages from archaeology texts were laid out on their table, sofa and both chairs. Sherlock was sick of all of it.

He laid awake for a long time and listened to John's regular, even breathing. Finally, fatigue took its toll and Sherlock followed John into sleep.

* * *

_he is_

Inside a transparent capsule, sitting at the base of a dying tree, its branches still spread wide though the leaves have long since gone. He can see shimmering golden light filtering down underneath the bows, growing brighter as he flies through space toward the collapsing star.

_he is alone_

He realizes from the distant corner of his mind that this is all just a dream, but there's still that desire to reach out for someone, even when they're not there, even when they've been absent for so long.

The vast darkness of space vanishes, replaced by light from the star.

Gently, he strokes the rough bark of the tree and begins to climb easily upwards. He pushes past the flexible membrane of the capsule, which draws tight behind him around the tree again, protecting it from the vacuum of space. His tiny vessel flies upward to the disintegrating celestial body.

Ogygia gradually compresses to a pinpoint of shimmering luminescence and darkness envelopes him. When the star does explode, it's deafening, filling the space around it with fire and light, scorching him through body, bone and soul. The resurgent starlight flows to coat the tree, freed from its incinerated capsule, and it blooms and blooms, the crown turning again to green leaves as it was in countess ages past. And though his body is gone and he, as such, ceases to exist, this pain is intense and unbearable.

Yet this pain

_is nothing_

to what he felt through all those long years of loneliness and irreplaceable loss...

* * *

Sherlock jerked away, breathing raggedly and peering into the darkness. It wasn't the darkness of space that he saw, though, only the walls of their bedroom in 221B. John felt him moving about and now asked in a voice tinged with worry,

"What is it, Sherlock? Were you having a nightmare?"

"Yes. No. I don't know...a very strange dream."

John didn't ask him for any details, well aware that Sherlock would explain further if he chose to. But Sherlock remained silent and relaxed back into the bed with his forehead pressed to the base of John's neck.

"John, have you ever spoken with me...about a star named Ogygia?"

"No, I didn't...but remember when I came back from Oxford? I tried to tell you about the lecture but you cut me off." John sounded somewhat bewildered. "Professor Creo and I looked at the star with his telescope. Why do you ask?"

"No reason, John. It's nothing - go back to sleep."

* * *

Every day they seemed to move farther away from one another. John no longer spoke on the subject of their fear, and, to Sherlock's great ire, seemed at peace. For Sherlock this tranquility  smacked of apathy and resignation, and he hated it.

Sherlock rarely appeared in the flat anymore, had practically sequestered himself at the laboratory. He had called Mrs. Hudson and persuaded her to stay with John; in fact, many friends dropped by to visit with John, saying that he now needed it the most. And while John was surrounded by his loved ones, who pitied or attempted to comfort him, Sherlock withdrew further into himself, desperately alone.

Surprisingly, the most demanding of individuals maintained his distance - for the first time, and it was under those strange circumstances that Sherlock went to Mycroft, without having any real purpose at all for doing so. His elder brother silently accepted his presence and offered him a brief trip to Ireland.

"Just for a half day, no more. You'll be interested in what I have to show you. It's clear you need a simple distraction of some kind, and this won't divert your concentration unduly from your work."

And Sherlock had agreed, but his conscience nagged him a bit as he flew there on the private plane - these were hours he could be spending with John, if he did manage to drag himself away from the work. Mycroft, true to form, escorted him to the hangar of a secret government facility, which was crowded by engineers, astronomers, technicians and a wealth of sensitive diagnostic equipment. There, in the center, surrounded by cranes and framework, was a huge, transparent sphere. It was a ship destined for spaceflight.

"It's the latest technology, completely under wraps, of course. In its development were involved the very best of minds. It can withstand the dangers of deep space, but there is still the problem of distance and time..."

Sherlock was silent. At the first glimpse of the capsule he had recalled his dream straight away, and currently he was marveling at the power of the subconscious.

"You've shown it to me already, I'm sure. I've probably deleted it."

Mycroft was taken aback.

"Never before. I wouldn't have had any reason to do so."

And for once in his life, Sherlock did not know what to think...

~~~~~~~~~~~~

At last - the miracle that Sherlock had awaited, worked for and hoped for - at last! It almost seemed too good to be true. He had located the missing component in Ireland, yes, Ireland again! from the extract of the oak tree ( _Quercas robtraea_ ) used by local healers and even some pharmacists. Sherlock had come across it once before on one of his cases, though that seemed so long ago...

There were very few times in his life that he had the occasion to feel grateful to his brother, but this unexpected visit was one of those times. Of course, the compound needed to be tested, so Professor Phillips, the leader of the study, met him at the airport for the samples. Sherlock hurried home, near to bursting with nervous glee and tormented by the absolute need to see John again.

He ran into the flat without removing his jacket and seized John without any greeting at all, wrapping himself around him. He pressed his lips to John's mouth and the sound of static filled his mind as he plumbed John's mouth with his own tongue, deep, hot, moist, alive...

"Wow," said John, choking a bit when Sherlock finally let him up for air. "What's happened?"

"I found the ingredient, the solution. You will live, John. With me, for a long time."

“Coming from you, 'a long time' sounds like 'forever,’” he grinned. “What's this miracle cure?”

"Nothing too extraordinary, all rather obvious - it's found in the sap or the bark of the Irish oak, I'm still a bit unclear on that. I'm such an idiot - so much time has been lost, all in vain..."

“Oh, that's it! Eó Mugna.”

“What?”

"Oak - Eó Mugna, one of the five trees that sprouted from the seeds of the World Tree, brought to the Celts by Trefuilngid Tre-eochair."

“Celts brought...who?”

“I'll show you!” Enthused, John ran into the living room. Sherlock heard him rifling through piles of paper, but then the noise subsided and did not return. Suddenly there came the noise of a loud thump and a roar sounded in Sherlock's ears. When he ran into the living room, he saw John lying spread-eagled and unconscious on the floor, illuminated by a bright ray of sunshine...

~~~~~~~~~~~~

In a maze of uncertainty and suffering, Sherlock rushed down the corridor of the hospital. After what seemed like days, he was allowed into the room.

The white lamplight shining over the bed made John seem even paler than usual. He was unhealthily skinny, with dark circles under his eyes, and exhaustion was written on each line of his face and on the sagging skin of his body. Sherlock viewed all of these signs and knew how little time was left for his John...but that knowledge in no way diminished his determination to fight against that ending - and win, now that there was at last a means.

"You must have been terrified - look at you, all frightened," John smiled up at him weakly.

"You would have been, too, if you'd seen yourself," grinned Sherlock back, grimly.

"No worries," John closed his eyes. "It'll be over soon."

“Soon, yes, but in our favor.”

“Sherlock ...”

"No, don't even dare think otherwise-" John shook his head in reply - "don't you dare, d'you hear?" Sherlock squeezed his shoulder and more quietly, more gently said, "I just need more, some more time. Hold on...please."

"Oh, you do know how I treasure your rare 'pleases,'" John giggled.

"That's why I said it."

"Manipulator."

"Always have been."

But the quips didn't quite relieve the oppression of the situation, and Sherlock thought again of the laboratory, and the results that might be waiting for him. He got up but John grabbed his arm.

"Where are you going?"

"The lab. I have to, it's really crucial."

"No, stay with me.”

“I'll come back later.”

“Please!”

"John, don't waste time trying to convince me."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

There are results, but they are not what was expected.

"This is incredible!"

"Sherlock, had you ever thought this was possible?"

"It's a miracle, an absolute miracle."

"An improvement?" Sherlock asked, trying to hide the jubilation and relief in his voice as he looked at a brain scan of one of the primates.

"The body's cells are rejuvenated constantly! The brain, you see, his brain's functioning like a juvenile!"

"And the tumor?" he said, frowning.

The researchers fell silent, and some of them stared into space or down at their feet. Professor Phillips replied.

"It remains unchanged."

"Then why are you celebrating? We haven't achieved our goal! Ready a new specimen for operation immediately and I'll mix in the other compounds that we rejected the last time."

"But..."

"Immediately, I said," Sherlock growled, and no one dared to contradict him, even though he was just an upstart without a medical degree...

Sherlock would have conducted the entire operation himself and was intensely irritated that he could not. Nothing could be done, though; he wasn't a surgeon and because he wasn't they treated him like an ignorant child.

When the operation was over, Sherlock's phone rang - Lestrade. What the hell? He thought he had made himself quite clear, and recently, too, that he was not planning on doing any investigating. Not in the near future, at least, and perhaps never again. Whatever John wanted. He ducked into Professor Phillips' office and accepted the call.

"Sherlock, where in the hell are you?"

"At the hospital."

"Well of course you bloody are, but you're not at the right one. Why are you there?"

"Where else would I be?"

"With John, dammit! He needs you!"

"Are you insinuating that I'm neglecting him?" Sherlock hissed into the phone. "I'm trying to save him! What business is it of yours?"

"He's my friend, and I know that he's...nearly...

"Oh, so you know that for sure? Do you?"

"Any normal person would see that he's...

"Go to hell!"

Sherlock threw his phone on the table without bothering to disconnect and barely restrained himself from completely trashing the office.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

But again, the new results had to wait, and Sherlock had nothing constructive to do. Back at the hospital, Mrs. Hudson was in John's room and Lestrade was pacing back and forth in the corridor, wrapped up in a conversation on his mobile. He grunted at Sherlock and ended the conversation before giving him an awkward pat on the shoulder. Sherlock glanced down at the hand, confused - this was such an uncharacteristic gesture for Lestrade, and after all, Sherlock had just finished screaming at him over the phone.

"It was good of you to come."

Sherlock snorted ambiguously and waited for Mrs. Hudson to emerge. When she saw Sherlock she embraced him frantically and he hugged her back. Her touch was allowable and familiar but she was sobbing, and Sherlock almost hated her for her tears. Why wasn't anyone but him still optimistic? They were so close to solving it.

"How are you?

"Okay," John smiled, weaving his fingers into Sherlock's and squeezing, showing how glad he was to see him. He could read John far better than any unnecessary use of customary greetings, and he saw that at least John's mood hadn't deteriorated.

Sherlock gave him a long paper bag.

"I brought your manuscript so you'd have something to do while you're here."

"How horrid, you being so sentimental. It scares me," John said, squinting at him slyly.

"Me, too," said Sherlock.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Come on, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh, Inspector, just look at my poor boys. They're so tired," said the landlady, sadly. Through the window, the two of them watched John and Sherlock frozen together in an embrace. They were both so pale and thin, even Sherlock, and they were shadows of their former selves...

~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Professor Creo came to see me - we talked about a lot of things. You know, after a person's death, they're reincarnated as something else, they don't vanish from the earth. Anyway, as long as this happens, nothing really dies."

"Oh, for God's sake, not this again..."

"No, no, listen to me, Sherlock. This person doesn't lose himself. There's signs that you can recognize, even if he's not a human or animal-" Sherlock jerked away from him, but John gripped him tightly and continued to whisper in his ear " - I know I told you I didn't want to die, but now I'm not afraid."

Sherlock managed to wriggle away from him and angrily flapped his arms in the air as he let loose on John.

"I've heard just about enough of your damn Creo and this nonsense! _Professor_ Creo - as if! He's driven you mad! You, John...you were never like this! I didn't think you'd be so easily influenced by such stupid tales and fables. John, you've changed so much, you never gave up, never..." over this last word, Sherlock's voice cracked.

"But you're just the same as always, Sherlock - selfish."

"How am I the selfish one? I'm the one who wants you to live! You're babbling on about some idiot I don't even know...do you have any idea how hard it's been for me to go through this..."

"Sherlock, I'm always with you, my whole life is you, from the time we both met. From the moment you ran over half of Westminster looking for that cabbie, and when I shot him - it doesn't matter. Even when you 'died,' when you jumped off of Bart's and when you came back - I'm with you all the days, all the minutes, and now - until the very last second. So stop making such a scene, drama queen."

Sherlock slumped back down onto the hospital bed and a lump welled up in his throat. Bowing his head at John, he muttered at him,

"That was rather pathetic of me."

"Well, yeah, like I said."

Sherlock looked down at him and John's eyes were shiny. He could feel his own eyes responding in turn.

"Don't leave me."

"I told you."

"But you were talking nonsense about reincarnation and inanimate objects."

"Yeah, you're not very good at reading the subtext, though. Would you-" John said, quickly changing the subject - "stay here with me for the night?"

* * *

Though Ogygia was still far away, its light reflected strongly off the transparent contours of the ship.

"There, beyond those swirling gas clouds, is a dying star. When we get there, you will be reborn, and together we will live forever."

* * *

Sherlock started awake, his eyes opening abruptly.

Again, this weird dream, undoubtedly sparked by those ridiculous ideas that he hadn't deleted. Sherlock was beginning to loathe his subconscious.

They were lying together in the cramped hospital bed, bodies huddled closely against one another - John had his back against Sherlock and Sherlock had draped his arm carefully over his chest, careful not to disturb the catheter. In the night's gloom, only the lights of the monitors shone, displaying John's pulse and heartbeat.

For a time, Sherlock stared at John's shaven head and suddenly an unexpected and out-of-character question arose in his mind. It swam around, and though Sherlock tried to will it away, he could not. So much for his vaunted hard drive.

"John?" Sherlock finally whispered.

"Mmm?"

"The knight in your book...does he find the tree in the end?"

John mumbled something sleepily back at him - Sherlock didn't quite catch it - and he relaxed, falling back into dreams again.

His eyes were bloodshot and his body ached, but there was no way Sherlock would be going back to sleep. He got up from the bed, careful not to disturb John, and, pulling on his hopelessly wrinkled shirt, he stood frozen with indecision in the dark room. His spirit of scientific inquiry yelled that he should return to the lab. But, on the other hand, if there were any immediate changes, Professor Phillips or someone else from the lab would call him. He would be close enough, if there were any calls. And something told him he shouldn't leave John, not tonight...

In exhaustion, Sherlock sank into a chair in the corner of the room, crushing his jacket underneath him - a sudden frenzy took him and he dashed it to the floor.

For the first time in his life he felt completely at a loss, overwhelmed by panic. His brain, a finely tuned machine, felt like it was covered with rust and that the gears had ground to a halt. The work, all his deductions, his whole purpose, had sunk into a quagmire, and he felt dulled and primitive. When had this happened? Sherlock barely restrained an impulse to rush into the corridor and test his skills on the first person he saw - patient, doctor or visitor - on anyone, just to prove that his mind still worked.

He glanced over at John, slumbering, and there he was - the reason for Sherlock's decline.

But as soon as this crossed his mind he was stricken by an almost-physical pain, and was sickened by the cruelty and absurdity of his thoughts.

John - he was...

The only person who had ever accepted Sherlock for himself.

John had believed in him when the rest of the world thought he was a freak and then a liar, even when Sherlock had tried to force him away for his own safety.

 _Trust issues_ \- Sherlock remembered the phrase, but John had trusted Sherlock as no one ever had - unconditionally and without reservations. And Sherlock had at last trusted him in return.

John - he had carved out a space for himself, he was a whole epoch in Sherlock's life (though John said, laughing, that stages of anyone's life could hardly be called an 'epoch,' let alone Sherlock's). But nothing like this had ever happened to Sherlock, and he could find no more apt description for their relationship than that of partners for life.

Before he met John, Sherlock had long been accustomed to being on his own. But once he had tasted that exquisite understanding and acceptance and love, once he knew how much he had been missing - he realized there was no going back. Being alone again, returning to that solitude...it was something he didn't dare consider...

When Sherlock contemplated the entirety of his situation, he knew he wouldn't be going anywhere - at least, not until the morning.

For some reason, it was more tolerable to think about leaving John in the morning than in the stillness of the night.

Sleep still evaded Sherlock, and he slid farther down the chair, lost in thought. His eyes lit on the manuscript where he John had left it, lying on the table. With a soft, careless sigh, Sherlock turned on the lamp and picked up the book, leafing through the pages to the spot where he had left off the last time. He reread a few paragraphs, trying to pick up the thread of the story again. Sherlock's eyes lazily stumbled over the words, and he had the vague sense that there was some meaning, some clue that still eluded him..

* * *

It was so strange - so odd, that in this capsule, drifting through space, he could have brought some other person with him, and one dressed so richly too - a man from another time? His face was blurred yet familiar, and the stranger was smiling and holding out his hand to him.

"Know that your king’s heart pulses for you, awaiting your return."

"What?"

The figure spoke to him again, but the words were drowned out by a piercing, electronic squeal.

"I don't understand."

The shriek became deafening in his ears.

* * *

Sherlock was snatched out of sleep by the wail of the nearest monitor.

His mind surged into action and he was paralyzed by fear, fear that overtook him like waves...

The visual lines on the screens jumped angrily, showing a faint pulse....and then nothing.

John lay motionless on the bed, half covered by a sheet.

Sherlock leapt up and forcibly punched the call button in the wall. He stared into space for five seconds and then clutched at John. He slapped his face repeatedly, screamed his name and pressed down onto his chest, until it seemed there were things pulling on him. He held onto John that much more tightly, so that they couldn't take him away.

Sherlock realized the things were medical personnel and that they were pushing him out the door of the room.

He felt his own heart shut down and he couldn't breathe.

This was so much worse than he had ever imagined.

No, that was not true at all; he had never once imagined this moment.

* * *

The last of the tree's living bark finally dried out and hardened like a stone.

"No, no, no, no, no, no!" He cried desperately, groping over the trunk with his hands. "You can't, it's too early! No, please don't die...we aren't there yet..."

The starlight twinkled out along with his last hope, leaving the dying Ogygia alone in the midst of the nebula. Space stretched around him, void and purposeless, just like his life...

* * *

The harshness of the morning light penetrated beneath his closed eyelids, dispelling the darkness of sleep.

Sherlock had almost become accustomed to these nightly visions of his. Each time there was a new variation on the theme, and sometimes the scenes contradicted each other - when Sherlock could remember what came before, or thought he remembered.

The funeral was today.

From downstairs, Sherlock heard rattling about; no doubt it was Mrs. Hudson engaged in some final preparations, making tea nobody would drink and biscuits nobody would eat.

He had to get out of bed. Shave, get dressed. These things weren't difficult, in and of themselves...but going out and interacting with people - not his area.

Mrs. Hudson had done a lot of the arranging; it appeared that John had spoken with her about it and left her directions. Sherlock had only managed to notify a couple of their friends about John.

Many people turned up for the ceremony and Sherlock felt completely justified in his apprehension. Harry was sitting up front, gasping with loud sobs and causing a ruckus. Sherlock forced back his irritation because John's death had come as a complete surprise to her. She had spend the last two years in Germany and John had purposefully kept her in the dark ("no need to tell her only to have her relapse, Sherlock") and she was stricken now by both shock and grief.

Sherlock kept an eye out for the man he had seen in photographs, the man whom John had spoken of so highly, but he didn't see him. It was probably for the best that Sherlock caught no sight of the professor who had wrought such...changes in John.

There were many praises about John, and how wonderful and honest and loyal a friend he had been. Had. Was. Was no more.

Sherlock grew increasingly annoyed with the tedium of all the people and the proceedings, and came to the conclusion that there was absolutely no point being tolerant or patient if John wasn't there to see him doing it.

He got up from the bench and stalked down the aisle, drawing stares from everyone in the room. When the music began he was near the exit, and he immediately noticed that it was not a traditional piece reserved for such occasions, but a song chosen with purpose. Chosen by John.

Sherlock froze, knowing that he looked ridiculous, but he found himself unable to move. He listened and heard, with fists clenched and jaw tight. The song went against his very nature but he continued to wait, and then he heard John's voice in the lyrics, John's thoughts, John's heart, calling to him.

_a place that I call home_

As soon as the song was over he left.

John was buried in Hampshire, where he had been born, and from London Sherlock had to travel for at least an hour...

Sherlock's was nearly overwhelmed with apathy and no idea of how to move forward. For months he had devoted himself to his newest occupation, which was finally successful - the drug did work, as it turned out, and the tumor in the chimp's brain had vanished - but he found no joy in his accomplishment. It was of no consequence to Sherlock that the new medicine would save the lives of other cancer patients.

Going back to his previous way of life, to the cases, would be familiar and was at least something he once enjoyed...but it felt wrong.

But he had to find something to do with his time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

That evening, Sherlock heard a faint trill in his coat pocket. He didn't answer and the phone rang for a good minute and a half. When they called back again, he contemplated throwing the mobile against the wall but it cut off mid-ring.

The day afterward, Sherlock looked at the piles of papers left in their sitting room. Mrs. Hudson had dusted around them with several pointed looks at Sherlock, and it occurred to him that some of the books and manuscripts might have some importance to a library or university.

When Sherlock checked his email he found a message from Professor Creo.

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_I rang yesterday but unfortunately, I could not reach you. I offer you my sincerest condolences. John was an exceptional man, and I truly appreciate that fate gave me the opportunity to meet him, if only for a short period of time._

_He spoke about you a lot, and it is a pity that we never met in person. We are unlikely to do so now, as I suspect that you do not wish to see me._

_I wished to apologize for not attending the funeral yesterday; I suffered an unfortunate accident and broke my leg, but as soon as I am recovered my first action will be to once more visit John in person to pay my respects._

_Sincerely,_

_Professor T. Creo_

There was the answer, at least, of what to do with all this waste paper. In the past, he would have left such trivialities to Mrs. Hudson (or John) and sent an email out, but he had nothing at all to do now. Perhaps clearing out this rubbish would help to bring his thoughts in order.

He asked his thrifty landlady and, sure enough, she produced several boxes. As they packed it all in, Sherlock caught sight of scanned images of drawings, texts and Ogham runes. Circled in marker on one of the pages was written:

_At sunset in the west there came a huge figure, rising over the tops of the trees. It was the god Trefuilngid Tre-eochair, he who causes the rising and the setting of the sun, and he held in his hand a huge branch with three fruits growing from it - hazelnuts, apples and acorns. When the people cried out amongst themselves, "how shall we feed this giant?" he told them that he was sated solely by the smell of the fruit, and that he who ate of the fruit would know neither disease nor hunger and would live forever. He then gave Fintan the Wise a few of the seeds from the branch, and from those seeds rose up Bile Tortan, Eó Mugna, Eó Ruis, Craib Daithi and Bile Uisneg..._

Eó Mugna...

Sherlock remembered John saying that and relating that it to the oak samples he had found in Ireland.

What in the hell was the point of even retaining such details? It was such rubbish and completely unnecessary, so Sherlock began to analyze the rest of his memories - those details tucked in the corners that he associated with detritus and debris. But the more he searched, the more he found that all of them, down to the smallest detail, were associated with John. They could not be destroyed-

_oh, John, you kept **my** feet on the ground_

Sherlock ruffled his hair and looked back at the text.

Hazelnuts, apples and acorns...acorns - oak - Eó Mugna. But five trees had been named. What were the two others, and what fruit did they yield?

All these tales were nothing but delusional fancies, yet Sherlock couldn't help but to look for some kind of logic in them.

There was no explanation at hand after Sherlock dug into another pile, so he took up the search on the Internet. There were some matches, at least: Eó Ruis - yew, Tortay Biel - ash, Craib Daithi - ash...why were they all ash or yew trees? The text had clearly stated that there were apples and hazelnuts! Why were those other three yew trees? Were they some kind of different species of yew tree?

It made absolutely no sense.

"What am I doing, what the hell am I doing?" muttered Sherlock, running his fingers through his hair again. "Looking for meaning where there can't possibly be any..."

_he who ate of the fruit would know neither disease nor hunger and would live forever_

Sherlock thought of the very first round of results, from the time he had used the oak samples from Leinster. It had been a surprising result but completely unhelpful - a "renewal" of the body's cells, an anti-aging effect...

If such a result could be obtained with using the extract of an oak tree...what might the result be of a mixture of oak, yew and ash?

"Oh, John, just look at me - your stupid story's gotten stuck in my head. It's time for me to finish with this..." and, not looking, he simply folded the paper into the box and carried it downstairs.

There were so many of John's other things in the flat. There was something of his in every room, in every corner of every room, but Sherlock would be in no hurry to get rid of any of it. He planned to leave everything in its place...

John's book was on the nightstand next to their bed. Sherlock tentatively pulled it to him and opened it to read again...

* * *

Father Phillip had been correct - they no longer needed the map, because on this holy ground there was only one path, and that led directly to the tree.

Every breath of air in this place felt alien and enchanted, and there was a lingering sensation of danger with each further along the path.

It seemed that the the trees here were taller, the brush thicker and that the canopy did not let in a single beam of sunlight. Rather, there was an otherworldly glow that seemed to emanate directly from the huge trunks themselves.

He could no longer tell how much time had passed since they discovered this trail. Father Phillip was no longer with them and so many of the previously loyal soldiers had abandoned the quest out of fear, resentment or anger. One of them had indeed gone mad and stabbed the poor priest before the knight and a squire had wrestled him to the ground.

The day before they had reached this strange woodland he had pointed to the sky and exclaimed,

"Look! There it is, there! The star is shining properly. Look, it's the brightest, do you see it? It's the star of this sacred island, Ogygia"

The silence was so oppressive now that even his breath seemed too loud.

He only noticed the attack when he saw Sir Peter fall, stricken by a single arrow to the chest. But he had heard no sound, no movement, and he caught no glimpse of any other soul - until silent figures appeared as if from nowhere, clad in shapeless robes. They clutched longbows to them.

In the distance, as the trees gave way to a clearing, he saw a mighty trunk, greater around than a donjon. That had to be it.

But he hadn't been prepared for these defenders, these Druids who were more warlike and violent than he had ever expected. Their swords flashed through the air and their eyes shone out hatefully from underneath their hoods.

He was crowded around by three of them at once, and he helplessly watched his companions fall one by one. The Druid closest to him spitefully hissed,

"Here again, damnable barbarians?"

Though his words were strongly accented, the knight was able to understand his English.

"Your kind have already destroyed our Sacred Tree once, why have you come back? We will not allow you to desecrate our sapling, so painstakingly nurtured and grown from the gift of our resurrected Trefuilngid Tre-eochair..."****

The other two warriors thwarted the knight's attempts at defense, and finally, one of them managed to knock his sword into the brush. The knight reached down to the sheath at his side and panicked when he found it empty. Though his death was imminent, he did not fear it, but mourned that he had lost the king's gift, had lost this last hope for his king.

"I've let him down, I've lost him..." he was battered relentlessly by the thought, and the pain of it was far worse than that of the sword driven into his side...

* * *

The narrative ended abruptly, and the only thing remaining in the book was the number of the next chapter. Sherlock felt his stomach turn over with shame, disappointment and despair - John did not have enough time to finish it. But as he looked again, he saw an inscription written faintly in pencil, standing in contrast to the black ink covering the rest of the pages.

 _Finish it for me?_ **:)**

"What? No, no, you must be joking!" Sherlock said aloud. "I can't. I don't know how. I can't finish it, you know that! It's your book, your story, I don't know what was going on in your head, you idiot!"

He threw the book to the floor with an angry cry, "...in your head, your stupid, stupid head.." his voice broke and his lips trembled. He felt moisture well up and furiously jabbed his fingers at his eyes, but then a single sob burst out from his chest and he was finally helpless to keep the tears from boiling past his lashes and down his cheeks. In the end he covered his whole face with his hands and convulsively took several deep breaths. He just managed to regulate his breathing but it in no way dispelled the heaviness in his chest.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He gathered a few more things, preparing to carry to them down to his bedroom although he had not slept there in quite some time. The two of them had long since moved to John's room.

In the process, he came across John's knife.

It was as if it had never gone missing at all. It lay innocently on the side table next to some of Sherlock's chemistry texts. And although a film of dust lay thinner on it than on the adjacent books, Sherlock concluded that it had been there for some time. But how did it get there? Sherlock only remembered leaving it in the lab and never seeing it again. But - if he himself had brought it home, how had he done so? Did someone from the lab perhaps bring it back to John? But John would not have left it here, it was dear to him, he cared for it...

It looked as if the knife had come from nowhere, had just popped magically back into existence. Sherlock was certain that he was losing his mind.

He sat on the floor beside the bed, fiddling with the knife. The creamy handle gleamed in the light when he wiped the dust off it, and the blade shone brighter than ever. Its silvery edge was smooth and polished, as if John had just finished sharpening it. Unbidden, a memory snapped into Sherlock's head of the last time John had performed maintenance on the knife.

John would later and sarcastically state that Sherlock had chosen such an appropriate moment to discuss the changing nature of their relationship. He groused that of course Sherlock would say, "it's time for us to stop running away from each other and go to bed already," right when John was holding a knife _._

And at that time, though they had become very close, with acts of friendship gradually tipping them over into the unknown, neither had yet put into words what they felt. Hence Sherlock's words had come as a total shock to John, so much so that he jerked the blade directly into the base of his ring finger. Sherlock did not understand his subsequent consternation, arguing that if John had been holding the knife in his working hand - his left hand - he would never have cut himself. John had in this way gained a new scar, and though it was thin and rather inconspicuous, he was still quite put out.

"Oh, yes, of course, it's my fault I cut myself. It's not my arse of a flatmate's fault, who, for some reason in particular, decided that now was the ideal time for us to fuck."

John's voice, rang suddenly in Sherlock's ears - as clear as if he had spoken just the day before - and Sherlock's eyes burnt with unspent tears. For how much longer would this despicable weakness last?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was some time afterward that Sherlock had noticed John periodically examining his new scar.

"Why are you staring at it again? It can't still hurt, too much time has passed," Sherlock had said lazily as John lay with his bare back pressed against his chest, gazing down at his hand.

"Huh?" John shoved his hand underneath the blanket, pretending that he hadn't heard the question.

"Mmhm, very clever. I didn't see anything at all."

John sighed and rolled over but he didn't meet Sherlock's eyes.

"It's nothing, never mind."

"John."

"You'll laugh. Or worse."

"Really?" Sherlock leaned toward him and ran a hand through his blonde hair, urging him to turn and look at him. "Now I'm even more interested."

He rubbed his thumb along John's temple, silently encouraging him to explain. John raised his hand.

"I know it sounds stupid and all...but if you look at the back of my hand, where the scar is...it looks like a wedding ring," Sherlock's fingers froze and John hastily added, "like I said, silly. Just forget it."

Yes, Sherlock remembered the conversation quite well. Previously, it had seemed strange to him that a simple mark on one's finger could be associated with the idea of marriage. John could sometimes go overboard with his notions of sentimentality.

But the scar served as a reminder of the day that their relationship - and their lives - had changed.

It was as if that mark really did signify that John belonged to Sherlock.

He looked down at his trembling hand and at the knife. He turned it from side to side contemplatively and he concluded that the blade really was quite sharp.

When Sherlock dragged it over the top of his ring finger, the skin parted quite willingly for the smooth metal. Blood immediately painted the knife's tip and rolled down his hand, but the pain was negligible in comparison to the emptiness left by John's death.

Sherlock carved a semicircle into the space above his knuckle before he threw the dagger aside. More blood flowed down his arm and dripped onto the floor.

He went to disinfect the wound before his uncharacteristic gesture of fidelity caused him to develop a case of gangrene...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One week afterward , Sherlock had just finished gathering his equipment from the lab and was on his way back to Baker Street when he caught sight of several police cars parked at a house. As the cab drew nearer, he saw that it was Lestrade's team (what a coincidence!), and he asked the taxi driver to stop.

They were all surprised to see him - Lestrade, Donovan , Anderson and the others were there, the entire team he had once worked with. Sherlock also noticed a new pair of individuals, an addition to the crew.

"Sherlock! How did you know? We only just got here, I haven't even had time to..."

"I was taking a cab back and saw your cars. What's happened?

Lestrade's expression of surprise was replaced by a look of anticipation and, as he turned back into the house, he beckoned that Sherlock should follow him. He noticed Lestrade's features relax with some satisfaction, and Sherlock suppressed a sigh as he followed the inspector inside.

In the center of the room lay the corpse of a middle-aged woman with head trauma. There was nothing interesting about it, no mystery to it - she had fallen and hit the corner of the electric heater. Was it made of cast iron? It looked nearly ancient.

Sherlock watched as Anderson leaned over he body and he summoned all of his own meager medical knowledge. It was clear to him that the cause of the fall had been a heart attack, and he said as much to Lestrade. Routine. Dull.

"But what was the cause? Did something trigger the attack?"

"Her computer is still on in standby mode. See?"

Lestrade wriggled the mouse, the monitor flickered into life and he let out an exasperated grunt.

"It's password protected."

"And that's a problem because...?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows and gazed around the table, the shelves and the rest of the room. Within two minutes he had correctly entered the combination.

They were looking at an open email, written by a woman named Samantha, expressing her regrets that her mother could not accept her lover, Charles. Samantha had gone away with him and explained that her mother not to look for her in the future; she had already taken any of her belongings that she might need.

"Well, there you have it. Trivial, ordinary. Perhaps she would have survived the heart attack, but the fall, as you see, was fatal. 

"Hmm," Lestrade rubbed his chin, "by ourselves, we would have gotten it. Not as fast, of course, but...well, what do you say?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but looked at the woman who had become the victim of her love for her  selfish daughter and a weakened heart - along with the old heater, too...

"How stupid...to die like that, accidentally."

"Well, some events are just destined to happen and there's no way to stop 'em," the inspector observed philosophically.

"No way, you say? With this situation here the solution was within my grasp, was within my control. There is always an answer if you only take the essential parts - which seemto be wound up in a ball of 'too lates' and 'cannots' that nobody can unravel - just take those parts and recognize them as the problem. Hell, yes, why - I could use my method to fix anything that's wrong!"

"Sherlock," Lestrade gave him a hard look that was nevertheless tempered by sympathy, "you cannot fix everything. That's not possible."

Both of them knew that the conversation had gone far afield of its original subject, but Sherlock slowly shook his head.

"No."

"He won't come back! You need to accept that!"

Everything there was listening to them now and staring, but Sherlock didn't care.

_he who ate of the fruit would not know disease or hunger and would live forever_

_Sherlock, had you ever thought this was possible?_

_it's a miracle, an absolute miracle_

Sherlock wrapped his coat about him tightly and with grim determination said,

"Death is just a disease. And I will find a cure."

He turned abruptly and stalked away.

"That's insane," said a hushed voice.

He couldn't determine who had said it - it was uttered too quietly - but it brought back a long-buried sensation of hurt and sorrow on his part. John had once put an end to the insults by making it very clear that anyone who had anything to say about Sherlock could deal with him. But now John was not there to counter the attacks from these idiots and Sherlock was back to forcing himself not to care. He went without saying another word.

The cab was still waiting for him and Sherlock stepped back inside , but indicated that the driver should go back in the direction from which they came. Sherlock pulled out his mobile and dialed the numbers he had long since memorized.

"Professor Phillips, I'm on my way back. We will continue the study, but in a slightly different direction."

* * *

One year later, there was a new mark on Sherlock's finger, set just above the pale strand of the first scar. So began his second year of life without John.

He went out to Hampshire, reflecting on the many months of work and the times he woke up in the night, feeling as if he were freefalling in space, wrapped in loneliness. As he walked now he reassured himself of the contents of his pocket and thought again of his most recent dream vision. In this one he had stared down at his hands, and they had been entirely covered in small wavering lines. Each of the marks led to another, up the back of his hand, curving around his wrist and into one larger strip that crept up his forearm. Both arms were mirror images of one another and when he stretched them out they had the appearance of a tree's branches. But there had still been room for new carvings.

This latest dream was came the night after he made the second incision in his finger. He had become accustomed to the dreams and there were many times he felt he could no longer blame his subconscious for their persistence. John would probably have called them prophetic.

John was buried at the place where his parent's house had once stood - it was an isolated area, out in the country where few people lived now. Sherlock stood still for some time, watching dead leaves swirl about his feet. Then he crouched on his knees and dug his hands into the ground, delving out a small hole. From his pocket he pulled out a small pouch and upended it, showering the ground with them. They were the seeds of an artificially grown fruit, a hybrid cross of five trees from Ireland: an oak and yew from Leinster, an ash from Ushnagh, and the other two - from the hill of Tara itself.

It would take considerable time for the seeds to sprout, and even more before they would be fully grown into a great spreading tree. But when Sherlock had last asked Mycroft about the work on the space capsule, he had said,

"Sherlock, I'm afraid that with all the research and development needed, it will take decades before it is ready."

"That doesn't matter," the corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up in an imitation of a smile. "I've got forever ahead of me."

The important thing was to be on time. Even the pages of eternity have an ending.

**Author's Note:**

> * Magna Carta - stamped by the English King John Lackland, is a document that guaranteed his subjects certain privileges and rights. The king was forced by powerful barons to condone the document on June 15, 1215.  
> **Glastonbury Hill - the alleged burial place of King Arthur and his wife Guinevere  
> *** Patrick Watson - "Slip Into Your Skin"  
> **** According to legend, Christian priests encouraged the destruction of sacred trees
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> This translation would not have been possible without support from Annette_N, the original author, who is multilingual. She is an amazing writer and I'm so delighted to have been the translator for this work. My enthusiasm for The Fountain is only surpassed by my love for Sherlock, and when I came across Annette's work, I knew I had to translate it. Thank you for reading!
> 
> For the Russian Johnlock fandom: Шерлок любит Джона и Джон любит Шерлока.
> 
> And for Annette_N, with gratitude: спасибо и Я был бы счастлив работать с вами снова!


End file.
